Just the mention of it caused Defoe to grind his immaculate teeth together and Uri had clearly taken objection to Dana leaning on other men for help. The way he followed her like a lost puppy was clear evidence that he loved her, yet she obviously didn’t feel the same way.

  When all of this was over, Defoe was very likely going to put the little puppy down.

  With deep, concentrated breaths, Defoe slowly lifted his head.

  As his eyes rose to the mirror, he grimaced at the jagged scar that obliterated his hair line, and the further he raised his head, the quicker his breathing became. He hadn’t fully inspected the sheer destruction of his face this close, and what he saw repulsed him to his very core. The stitches that were holding his face together were thin, black strips, but they were sashaying across his face in different directions. One set was holding his eyebrow in place, as it trailed down under his eye and he was surprised he hadn’t been blinded. Others were pulling his face back together, looping across his nose and several stitches were keeping his lips in place.

  He had been mutilated.

  Jacob Nash hadn’t tried to kill him. That much was clear. If he had wanted to, Nash could have snapped Defoe’s neck under his boot had he wanted to. But Defoe knew Nash, and despite being a ruthless killer, the man was also irritatingly noble. To him, Defoe’s betrayal wasn’t worthy of death.

  Not yet at least.

  As he thought about the pleasure Nash must have taken from disfiguring him in such a brutal manner, Defoe felt his knuckles whiten as he tightened his grip before letting out a ferocious roar of anger. It echoed through the bathroom and no doubt, alerted the others in the penthouse.

  He didn’t care.

  He took a final look at the monstrous face in the mirror and then stomped to the door. He threw it open and marched back into the main room, where all eyes fell on him,

  ‘Yo, you okay, bruv?’ Leon asked, but Defoe ignored him and reached for one of the assault rifles. As he checked the chamber, his eyes were wide with frenzy, and Uri stepped forward.

  ‘Do not fuck this up.’

  Uri’s threat sent Defoe’s vision red, and the American dropped the rifle and struck the hulking Ukrainian with a vicious right hook. Uri’s solid jaw absorbed the blow and he stumbled back once pace, before a smile spread across his face. As Defoe beckoned him forward, Uri’s hand slipped to the inside of his blazer, but before he could retrieve his weapon, Dana clasped his hand.

  ‘No,’ she commanded. ‘Stay focused.’

  ‘Let him go.’ Defoe goaded, his body shaking with adrenaline.

  ‘No. Uri. Take a walk.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Uri turned to her with surprise.

  ‘Do not question me.’ Dana snapped. ‘I need you alive and I need him on Sam Pope. So do as I say, and take a walk.’

  Uri’s mouth curled into a furious snarl, and he shot a menacing look at Defoe before he turned and stomped to the door. He threw it open and stepped through without even looking back. Dana watched him go, knowing the man’s pride had been hurt, but she knew of a few ways she could bring him back round again.

  Men were so weak.

  So easy to control.

  Before another word was muttered, a gunshot echoed outside the building, followed swiftly by another. Leon rushed to the window and peered down to the street below.

  There was an abandoned car in the centre of the road, and what he could just make out as the prone feet of one of his men. The building cut off the view, but he quickly surmised that the man was dead.

  ‘He’s here.’ Leon said coldly.

  ‘Right…’ Defoe went to pick up his rifle, but Leon reached his hand out and stopped him.

  ‘Let me welcome him.’ Leon pointed to his missing arm. ‘He’s got a receipt coming.’

  Defoe understood. What he wouldn’t give for the same opportunity with Jacob Nash? Willingly, Defoe lowered the rifle and stepped to the side. As Leon marched to the door, flanked by a couple of his goons, Dana called out after him.

  ‘I want him alive, remember?’

  ‘He’ll be alive.’ Leon flashed a cruel, grin. ‘Barely.’

  As Sam stepped into the foyer of the Marlow Heights building, he was instantly drawn back to his first assault on organised crime. Hunting down Frank Jackson, Sam had swarmed the High Rise like a one man army, clearing it out floor by floor until he unloaded a full clip into Jackson’s body. But that was over three years ago.

  Then, he had grenades and an assault rifle. Now, he had two hand guns and no idea what was waiting for him within the building itself. He also hadn’t been through such a crippling amount of punishment, and as he stepped carefully past the reception desk, his spine began to stiffen again.

  His ribs ached.

  His face throbbed.

  He was as close to running on empty as he could be, and he knew he only had minutes before the armed response unit made it’s way outside.

  He had to be quick.

  The doors to the lift opened on the other side of the foyer, and immediately, gunfire crackled into the room and Sam, instinctively, dived over the thick, oak reception desk and clattered onto the marble on the other side. Just before he had leapt, he had counted four men, all of them armed, and one of them was wielding what appeared to be an assault rifle. The bullets thudded into the thick wood separating him from death, and Sam drew a breath, calmed his senses and lifted the guns up. He counted down from three.

  Two.

  One.

  Sam spun up from behind the desk, both arms stretched out, both triggers squeezed, and he unloaded a couple of rounds from each gun, sending two of his attackers spiralling to the ground. The other men scattered for cover, and Sam kept firing, scaring them into hiding before he spun back down to the ground and behind the sanctuary of the desk. The two remaining men unloaded another deluge of bullets in Sam’s direction, each one sending wood chippings into the air. There was only so much the desk would be able to take, and Sam knew it wouldn’t be long until he was completely exposed. As their shots died down, clearly to reload, Sam once again spun out, unloaded the remainder of both clips in their direction.

  Then the guns clicked pathetically and he dropped down behind the desk again and tossed them onto the floor.

  ‘I’m out.’ Sam yelled.

  ‘That’s fucking disappointing.’ Leon chuckled.

  ‘She wants me alive, right?’

  ‘Yup. She wants to fuck you up in ways you can’t imagine.’

  Sam rolled his eyes. Whoever this guy was, he spoke a tough game.

  ‘I guess there’s no chance you can let me go?’

  ‘Stand the fuck up, or I’m gonna walk over there and put a bullet between your ribs.’

  Sam lifted his hands first, proving he was unarmed, and then cautiously rose to his feet. He turned, immediately seeing the assault rifle trained on him by one man, before a man he recognised beckoned him out with his gun.

  His other arm was missing.

  ‘Hello, Leon.’ Sam said casually as he approached them, still very aware of the damage an assault rifle did at point blank range.

  Leon cracked Sam in the side of the head, the metal of the pistol splitting his eyebrow open and rocking him down onto one knee. Leon followed it up with a vicious knee to the face, and then drove his boot into the fallen Sam Pope as many times as he could. Eventually, he stopped and stepped back, admiring his handiwork as Sam rolled in agony, coughing and wheezing.

  ‘That felt good.’ Leon threw one more kick in for good measure. ‘Now get to your fucking feet, bitch.’

  Tentatively, Sam obliged, wobbling as he stood before the other guy prodded him with the gun, guiding him to the elevator. Leon followed, and a few moments later, Sam was standing, blood dribbling down his face and his head spinning. Behind him, Leon chuckled to himself, proud of the beating he had just given him, and his lackey stood silently, the gun trained on the back of Sam’s skull. One false move, and Sam’s brain and blood would be painting the doors.

  The lift continued its ascent, passing the second and third floor, and Leon was shaking with excitement as they approached the penthouse.

  Sam was heading in with no weapons, guns trained on him and his body ready to collapse. What awaited him was probably a fate worse than death, and the best thing about all of it was, they were taking him exactly where he needed to be.

  The lift stopped. The bell dinged.

  Then the doors opened.

  Uri had heard the gunfire bellowing through the building, but hadn’t gone running.

  Dana had made it clear that she had put her faith in men she barely knew, and the last thing Uri wanted to do was bail them out. He had questioned Dana’s intention from the beginning, offering his own services in the bid to take Sam Pope out of the equation, but she had refused. Foolishly, he thought it was her affection for him that had made that decision, but moments ago, he had seen the truth.

  She didn’t believe in him.

  She didn’t think he was up to the job.

  As he stomped through the hallway to the maintenance corridor of the building, he threw a mighty fist at the wall in frustration, cracking a knuckle or two, but ignoring the pain.

  He had proven to her on several occasions that he was a real man, satisfying her between the sheets regularly. Her moans had been all the evidence he needed to know that, but her coldness to him afterwards had never registered as deliberate. He assumed she was still grieving for the slaying of her family and thus wanted the physical interaction but not the intimacy.

  It had hurt him not to be able to provide it, but he had fallen so deeply in love with her that he would wait for it.

  He would do anything for Dana Kovalenko.

  Anything.

  It was why he had obeyed her order to take a walk, and ignored the gunfight that was already tearing the building apart. She didn’t want his involvement, so he wouldn’t get involved. Hopefully, when the misplaced trust she had placed in the two cripples had been blown away by Sam Pope, she would call for him.

  Beg for him to save her.

  And he would duly oblige.

  Until then, he walked down the dimly lit corridor, passing multiple storage rooms and a few massive water tanks. The thick, metal pipes that comprised the skeleton of the building were not hidden in this corridor, and he had to duck down to ensure he didn’t bump his head on them. Eventually, he came to the CCTV operation room, and he booted the door open with a stiff kick and stepped in, hands on hips.

  He wanted to get a view of what was happening without him, and on the main screen, he saw Leon brutally attack Sam Pope on the ground, laying in kick after kick until he ran out of energy. Sam was a broken mess on the floor, and Uri’s heart sank.

  They had him.

  He’d called Dana’s bluff and it had backfired.

  What use would she have for him if the other men had done what she thought he couldn’t?

  With a furious grunt, he slammed his already broken fist onto the desk, clattering the keyboard and bringing up a different camera onto the screen. He went to leave, but then his attention was drawn to the screen.

  It was the camera focusing on the metal door at the top of the fire exit at the end of the maintenance corridor.

  The door was open.

  Without thinking, Uri drew the Glock from the inside of his blazer, and stepped out into the corridor. A few steps ahead and he would round the corner and then be less than twenty feet from the open door.

  With murderous intent channelling his every move, Uri headed down the corridor, his gun drawn and his patience completely gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  EARLIER THAT EVENING…

  It hadn’t taken too long for Nash to make his way to London, and knowing that the Foundation was likely monitoring the CCTV at King’s Cross St Pancras should he take the train, he had instead simply stolen a car. It wasn’t hard to find one with insufficient security requirements, and after a quick twist of a few wires, he was headed to London. Luckily for him, the M1 wasn’t far from Derby City Centre, and after a few miles down the strangely named Brian Clough Way, he had turned onto the M1 and from there, it was a near two hour long journey on the same road.

  Before the sun had begun to set, he had dumped the car in Watford Junction train station, not far from where he had exited the motorway. Just on the outskirts of London, he was able to then take a direct train from the station directly into Euston, and from there, he took another train to Camden Town. The aim was to keep moving, and head to places that had never been on the Foundation’s radar when accepting this mission. The Foundation had almost limitless resources, but they would still essentially be looking for a needle amongst a myriad of haystacks.

  Before he stepped off and experienced the famous roads of Camden, impressed by the amount of diversity he saw among the passers-by, he adjusted the heavy sports bag on his shoulder. With his other shoulder out of action due to the bullet Defoe had sent through it, his one working one was beginning to sag under the pressure. Large stools were erected across the sides of the road leading down to the docks, which itself was decorated in some stunning graffiti. His large frame drew a few eyes, and as he shuffled through the crowds of people, some of the merchants tried to sell him their goods, which he politely declined.

  He found his way into a local coffee shop, purely because it offered free WiFi. Once inside, he pulled Dallow’s laptop from the sports bag and opened it on the table. As he struggled to connect to the internet, the polite young lady brought his espresso to him, which he thanked her for.

  She gave him a wry smile, but he ignored any interest as the connection finally took and he pulled up the previous screens that Dallow had open before his untimely death. After flicking through them and immediately dismissing them, he finally landed on the screen he wanted.

  It was the software they had used to listen in on the original phone call between Sam Pope and Dana Kovalenko, with the recording of the call displayed across the screen in a wavy, colourful pattern. He had little interest in listening to it back.

  But it did have the number to Brandt’s phone on display.

  Nash knocked back his coffee and then beckoned the eager lady over, ordering another along with a hot sandwich. As she returned back to the till to place it, Nash tried to stretch out the pain in his shoulder.

  He had managed to stop the bleeding, but at some point, the bullet wound would eventually render his arm useless. Going to a hospital was out of the question, as the Foundation was likely monitoring those, too.

  He pulled out his phone, to be greeted by a few more messages from Callaghan, begging him to make contact.

  He would.

  He’d had to.

  Nash skimmed through them and the message from Dana with the address of her hideout, and then opened a fresh message. He tapped in Brandt’s number, wrote out his message and then sent it.

  His sandwich and drink arrived, and Nash devoured them both quickly, and then he looked at the window and watched the world walk by. As he did, he reflected on all the times he had blindly followed orders, put some poor soul at the end of his gun and willingly pulled the trigger.

  When had it changed?

  When did he start thinking differently?

  Before he could even begin to unpack that, he received a message back from Brandt’s phone.

  From Sam Pope.

  It was a street in a place called Colindale and to be there at ten.

  Nash had no idea how far away that was, but was relieved when a quick search on his phone told him he could get a direct train from Camden Town. He had a few hours to kill, so he took himself for dinner and then he made his way there as instructed. Once there, he wandered down the non-descript street until he saw a man, unmistakably Sam, sitting on a bench. As he approached, he raised his eyebrows at the state of his face.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Fell out of a building. Was ambushed by a crazy guy with tattoos. Standard stuff.’

  ‘Was he Cuban by any chance?’ Nash asked, sliding the bag from his shoulder and gratefully taking a seat next to Sam.

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Nasty piece of work. Mendoza. They gave us a file on him. Where is he now?’

  ‘The morgue.’ Sam leant back on the seat. ‘So what’s the deal here?’

  ‘No deal.’ Nash nodded, confirming it to himself. ‘Just somethings need to be put right. I see you have a weapon?’

  Sam looked down at the gun in his hand. Pearce had come through for him, most likely at the cost of their friendship going forward, and Sam hated what Pearce probably had to do to help him.

  But he had needed a gun. In the long run, it could be what saves Pearce’s life if Dana’s threats were anything to go by.

  ‘I do. But this is it.’ Sam turned to Nash. ‘You?’

  Nash relayed to Sam everything he was able to save from the room before he had to disappear. They were out-gunned and out-manned, and both of them were severely wounded. At the top of their game, they were near untouchable. But in their current state, and with a vengeful Defoe still looking to factor in somewhere, they were up against it.

  Nash told Sam his plan. Sam shrugged.

  ‘It’s the best shot we got.’ Nash offered.

  ‘Well, I’ve been through worse.’

  ‘I can believe that.’ Nash chuckled. Sam moved as if to leave and Nash spoke up. ‘Why do you do it, Sam?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘What you do. No one’s paying you. You’re putting yourself through hell. What’s it all for?’

  Sam took a few moments, while Nash watched him intently. The hulking American wouldn’t know that Sam was recounting a cherished memory of his son, the two of them talking thunderstorms. But Sam knew that they were cut from the same, violent cloth. Nash didn’t need to know his backstory.

  He just needed a reason.

  Sam inspected his gun once more then stood, stretching his back out before taking one last glance at the road before them. Then, without looking back at Nash, he answered.

 

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